As I sit watching the clock hand crawl ever so slowly towards the next minute I can’t help thinking about Philip Seymour Hoffman and at the same time, me. Why this strange comparison came to roost, is simple. I’ve been following what people have to say about Philips death, noting the usual ignorance and harsh judgement when it comes to addiction. Not that the people who say things like ‘he should have known better,” or it was his ‘choice,” or even better yet, “if you use heroin, you deserve to die.” are bad. They’re not. Not any more than Phillip is bad. Unless you’ve been led by the puppet master of addiction, you will never know the true meaning of why. You may see the consequences, and if you love an addict, you will feel the results, but your brain isn’t wired the same way as theirs is, and asking why an addict uses, is like asking someone else why they breathe air. It’s a dumb question, and one we need to move beyond.
For the last three days I’ve suffered from ice-pick headaches. The pain is awful. I sweat, moan, babble inconsolably, cry and shake. My poor husband wanted to take me into emergency last night, he couldn’t stand it any longer, but I refused to go. I am seeking medical care, I’m waiting on blood work and I have a follow up appointment today.
This is where I join Philip on his journey. Philip suffered from pain and became addicted to narcotic medication. This scenario happens to be my worst nightmare. In my nearly 17 years sober, I have refused pain medication time after time. Through a broken toe, through a day surgery, through various medical treatments, through dental surgery, I have been incredibly lucky and persevered. Sometimes Ibuprofen is my best friend.
But last night… I came close to giving in. Out of my mind with pain, I just wanted it to stop.
Today… I feel bruised and sick and …I’m scared.
I don’t want to use. The thought of using terrifies me more than anything else possibly could. I know what happens to me when I use. My reasoning gets hijacked by addiction. I no longer dance seamlessly to the beat of my drum. Instead, I twerk.
They say you pick up where you left off. I believe it. I see it every day.
No one should ever have to choose between living in pain, or living on narcotics, but sadly they do.
The empathy I feel for anyone suffering from addiction is enormous. My heart goes out to the walking wounded. You know the wounded, you’ve seen them out there. They’re the ones we like to throw sticks and stones at.
Instead of judging, why not educate ourselves? I don’t see many people muttering under their breath ‘shame on you,’ and pointing fingers at the cancer patients who are terminally ill. Nor do I see them shaming folks with diabetes, or heart conditions.
All shame does for any of us, is make a bad situation, that much worse.
For myself, I pray to God, there’s a way to make this pain stop. In the light of day I feel stronger. For the moment I’m in between flare ups.
I am happy with the reprieve. I leave you with one final rant. If you’ve been inclined to cock a finger, remember this. There are three staring back at you!